Box of Crayons
by CrimsonCobwebs
Summary: Their footsteps are like rainbows; watch the colour spread. COMPLETE.
1. Pieces Of Sun

A/n: I missed doing pointless oneshots, so here is a collection to satisfy my cravings; each part is based on a coupling and an unstated colour theme. Just for fun. Enjoy, and please review! Guess the colour? (Though it's not hard in some cases!)

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'We are a Box of Crayons  
Each of us unique,  
But when we get together  
The picture is complete.'  
_(- Shane DeRolf)_

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**Part 1  
**_Pieces of Sun_

"Ooh, you stupid chocobo, come back here!"

For a brief second, Bobby Corwen stops and turns. He considers the girl and the mage and the consequences of disobeying, then chirps delightedly and (oblivious to the wrath of such impetuous summoner) dashes off again, a feather drifting between long fingers of grass as he kicks the turf in an excited beat.

Rejected, Eiko slams her fists against her hips, then tempestuously declares, "I'm gonna make that bird into a cushion when I get my hands on him, that good-for-nothing old chocobo!"

Vivi pauses to her right. He timidly chides, "Aw, don't be mad. He's just happy to be out of the stable. You'd be happy too."

"I most certainly would not!" the girl snaps, for the sake of contradicting him, then rampages through the meadow in a huff. Flowers sneeze off their petals. The grass is flattened in her wake.

Vivi totters after her and squints at the bird, who plays a mad game of running circles. Just watching him makes Vivi thirsty, so he politely suggests that here would be a good place to unpack the picnic Dagger made (with Eiko's help, the child is quick to amend, so Vivi fears for the condition of his tummy hours later) and Eiko ceases her stampede.

They lay the blanket where the swishing grass is shorter and the moss is faded from the heat, and sit beneath a tree where the sun is broken sequins between verdant leaves. Vivi contemplates this as he munches on a sandwich, then says, "What do you think the sun tastes like?"

"You sound like Quina!" Eiko chortles delightedly, and they both giggle. Then she says, "Like buttercups," and a little more solemnly: "but really really hot."

"Buttercups?"

She nods, then leans across to pluck the unsuspecting buttercup peeping over the blanket's edge. The sun catches the petals and a bauble of light dances across her cheek. She explains, "They are little bits of sun that fell down and grew into the earth."

Vivi takes the flower from her, eyes aglow with curiosity. He twirls it between thumb and forefinger and wonders if a splodge of butter-light dances on his face, too.

"So… if the sun tastes like buttercups…what do buttercups taste like?"

Eiko shrugs, then her face grows sly. "Wanna find out?"

The boy blinks. "You mean…?"

She leans across and snatches another flower from a grassy nook. She brandishes it the way Zidane would brandish a sword. "I will do it too! We will eat pieces of the sun and glow from the inside out!"

"U-um…"

"Ready?"

"Ah…"

"1…2…_3_!"

The flowers disappear simultaneously. Vivi chews and watches Eiko and just as her face crinkles like paper he tastes the sour plant-stuff too and they both spit the pieces of sun onto the grass. He drinks deep from a flask of lemonade and Eiko busily paws her tongue, but when he catches her eye they break apart in fits of giggles.

Bobby Corwen, who is close enough to cock a baffled eye at the pair, decides to investigate, and his curiosity is rewarded with Gysahl Greens, so he nests in the blanket and lets Vivi ruffle his feathers.

"Aw, we killed them," Eiko says after a moment, and gestures to the petals, all soggy, chewed-up and torn like broken butterfly wings.

Vivi picks up one such petal and thinks. Then he says, "Well… they're not really dead."

"How do you mean?"

"They'll be alive in our memory I guess. 'Cause we wont forget this moment."

"No," Eiko agrees after some sober consideration. "I'll remember that buttercups don't taste nice for future reference. I wouldn't want my stews tasting bad."

Vivi hums a vague agreement, then promptly changes the subject.

-

And Eiko always remembers to leave bundles of wild buttercups on Vivi's grave, because they taught her that nothing precious ever truly dies.


	2. Scripted

Thank you for the reviews, guys! And you got the colour: yellow. Wasn't hard, right? I don't think this one is either. It does have my favourite couple in it though (ya thought it was Zidag but it's nooottt :p ) Enjoy!

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**Part 2**  
_Scripted_

She lifts the glass in her hand so she can consider her reflection. The sloshing liquid distorts her visage into something terrible, but it serves her purpose just fine so she uses her other hand to apply the lipstick. When she lowers the glass he's glaring across the table, and she fights to suppress a smirk.

"I hate that lipstick," he states on cue.

She clicks the lid back into place without looking, then drops it into her clutch bag. "I know," she tells him, and fails to keep the smugness from her tone.

"It makes you look like a cheap whore."

This time she does bristle, her smile crystallising beneath the insult. "Then I guess my appearance suits the environment."

Blank scowls over his beer. "This is a _nice_ place."

"Sure, fer a hooker. When I said 'nice' I meant one o' them fancy places up Rose Square or – "

"I can't afford that shit," he growls through gritted teeth. "Just shut up and drink your goddamn wine."

Ruby stands so sharply that her glass topples sideways. It was an accident, but marvellously theatrical nonetheless, so she takes a moment to observe his anger and the wine dripping off the table and her untouched soup. She smoothes the dress he thought was sexy, then minces away with her nose tilted skyward.

It's still light outside, but the sun is slipping below the horizon and the sky is already aflame with brilliant colour. She stomps as best she can across the cobbles in her heels, just in case he's watching, but she thinks he's probably ordering another beer and will drink until the cows come home then will complain about a hangover in the morning. But will she listen? No. There'll be no one to listen because this time she's leaving and she really means it this time, she swears it, honest. Because no one on Gaia makes her angrier than Blank. Just looking at his stupid face makes her madder than a bull charging a matador's cape.

She is so busy thinking angry things that her whereabouts go unnoticed. Even though they went to a nice place (yes it was nice, she admits, though she will never tell _him_ that) it is hailed by a trek across the shadier side of Lindblum. She hadn't considered it before because Blank had escorted her and he always makes her feel safe –

_No!_ she catches herself quickly. He makes her angry and she's leaving this time and that's that.

Now she finds herself in an alley. The shadows are dark here, tainted fiery by the sunset. There are men halfway along, smoking cigarettes; the cherries glow and bob like demon eyes in the half-light. She grasps her purse nervously, wonders if she should turn back, but she is too stubborn and her anger makes her reckless.

Her heels clatter on the cobbles; broken glass crunches beneath their soles. Too loud. She smells the rancid odour of smoke and rotting garbage. The men are quiet and staring. Her heart races and her blood pounds.

"Hey – " one of them purrs and he grabs her wrist. "Hey, what are you doin' by your –"

She doesn't waste time on petty pleading. Ruby has grown up on these streets; she's not stupid. He does not finish his sentence because she sinks her teeth into his arm, lipstick smearing across his skin. He curses and lets go. She tries to run but there are another two men and in the end she's half their size in height and weight and cannot overpower them. She's shoved against the brick wall. The cigarette one man smokes tumbles from between his lips and burns her skin. She shrieks.

"Hey, motherfucker, why not pick on someone your own size?"

It's a funny thing to say, she thinks, considering Blank isn't particularly big. But when that thought goes away she's surprised by his incursion simply because he's never been much of a hero. He moans but he's obedient and in the end he gets the job done (the reason Baku favours him so). But in all honesty, she's just plain relieved (and a little angry – he's _always_ late!).

He puts up a good fight, considering the odds. The men leave eventually because he refuses to give up or pass out. Ruby offers her assistance on the walk back but Blank declines and boasts commendable acting skills by hiding the obvious pain.

At the hideout, he perches moodily on the edge of the table as Ruby dresses his wounds. The skin around his left eye is swelling. His nose has stopped bleeding but there's still drops on his lip.

"Ah – ouch!"

She's pressed too hard but she doesn't apologise, just pouts and narrows her eyes and says, "Yer sucha fool. If yer hadn't taken me t' that restaurant all the way in the digs – "

"It was a _nice_ place!"

"In a scummy neighbourhood!"

She finishes cleaning the cut on his eyebrow and sighs. "I guess we'll hafta spend the night in, then."

She goes to walk away but he grabs her wrist and kisses her, smudged blood mingling with smudged lipstick. He says, "Then we better make the most of it, hadn't we?"

She thinks they probably had, and decides that maybe he doesn't make her angry _all_ the time.


	3. Surrender

Well done to those that got the colour right last chapter: red! Thank you for the reviews too!!

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**Part 3**  
_Surrender_

The doves twittering on the balcony is in stark contrast to the chaos within, yet somehow reflective. The flutter of wings is like the quiver of parchment shifting in their hands. The cooing is no different to the murmur of sheet sliding upon sheet.

"Lord Carratine of Treno?"

"I should think so."

More fluttering, more cooing.

"The Duke of Lacine?"

"I suppose."

"Lord and Lady Berrelesk of the Court?"

"Gods, they're beginning to sound the same. Are you even aware of these people or the estates they hold?"

Beatrix runs a hand over her face and puts the quill down with such measured precision it is nothing less than a reflection of her fraying temper.

"It's not about _knowing_ these people; it's a matter of state." The words are crisp and cutting, a frosty blade. "If we don't invite these people we risk insult, and the queen may fall from favour."

"But…" His brow furrows as he thinks. "But surely… a few insulted nobles here and there would not be so unfavourable to Her Majesty?"

"A few here and there are a few too many."

"But we cannot invite them all!"

"But we must! If not to the ceremony itself then to the four celebratory events following."

"But-"

"That is why we are categorising, _Captain_ Steiner." There is no hiding her impatience now; her voice rises in pitch. "That is why we must trowel through endless lists and write invitation after invitation after invitation until I am most positive I will be reciting names in my sleep for Shiva knows how many bloody weeks!" She inhales quite sharply, surprised by her outburst, then tosses her hair in graceful recovery. "Please excuse me."

Steiner shrugs. The gesture nudges his quill and a bead of ink splodges onto a clean parchment. He considers it ruefully. It has been a long day.

"If I were to be married," Beatrix says suddenly, after a prolonged silence that he should have known was portentous, "I do not think I would abide so many guests."

Steiner blinks at her. A queasy, ominous snake stirs in his gut.

"I think I would want something small and clean, with little ceremony."

He tries to avert the subject. "Her Majesty would wish that too I think, I mean, for _her_ wedding. Zidane on the other hand – "

"Lord Zidane," she corrects (to irk him).

"Y-yes. _Lord_ Zidane. He likes all the theatrics. He wanted a parade through the streets Alexandria – can you believe it? The nerve of that rapscallion! As if five ceremonies and being flaunted before hundreds of onlookers and some of the most respectable individuals in the world is not enough! Why sometimes I ought to just –"

"Would _I_ wear a dress, I wonder?"

Steiner bites his lip. The colour is slowly draining from his face. He hopes it does, so he might blend in with the stacks of parchment and he wouldn't have to face his beloved's hinting any longer.

"Her Majesty's dress is quite beautiful," he tries desperately. "Wh-where was it that she had it tailored? The seamstress must be talented for –"

"I suppose I would go there too, with Her Majesty's permission."

Steiner runs a nervous hand across his breastplate. It is cold as snow. Cold as the sweat that is beginning to bead his brow. Would she notice? He is avoiding her eyes. They have always crackled with dangerous beauty, alluring and perilous as the lightening magic she summons to her fingertips, and sometimes he is lost within them and sometimes he is frightened by them. Now, he would veer more toward the latter. He thinks of Zidane's remarks – the hows, the why nots, the _whens_ – speaking so brusquely as if it were his business!

Absently, Steiner plucks a kerchief from the drawer, intending to dab the splatter of ink. Instead, he finds himself nervously tugging at its corners and folding it into ambiguous shapes. If Beatrix notices, she pays no attention, and stares at the doves. Her tone is distant and wistful as she continues, "But I suppose one cannot have a wedding too close to Her Majesty's."

"N-no, I quite agree, certainly not –"

"But then, I would so hate the publicity surrounding it otherwise. Perhaps Her Majesty's wedding would be an adequate distraction and mine would be relatively overlooked?"

"Ah…"

"And it is still in the warm months. Her Majesty's wedding cannot be hastily arranged but anyone else's can be done with virtual swiftness, do you not agree, Captain Steiner?"

She looks at him then and he is caught unawares, unable to look away without seeming hopelessly blatant. His dark eyes are round as twin moons and hers are clear, persistent and as refreshing as a much needed curaga spell.

Steiner breaks the contact and sighs heavily, knowing that this day would have come eventually, because Beatrix is so darn headstrong and Steiner can rarely oppose her in many things.

After a moment's reflection, he gently places the kerchief in front of her, on the table. She looks at it with confusion, then mild annoyance, and gestures impatiently. "What is this?"

"You're getting your way," he says. "I surrender."

Beatrix stares at him, then at the kerchief, then smiles broadly. Perseverance is an art not to be trifled with, she thinks, and pockets the kerchief with an air of unmasked triumph.


	4. Insanity Is Indifferent

Thanks for the reviews guys! Yep, last chapter was white! This chap is hella easy too, but hey, I never said they were gonna be hard! Enjoy!

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**Part 4**  
_Insanity is Indifferent_

Quite abruptly, it stops raining.

The sensation is so startling that for a moment Freya thinks she might have died, for surely a corpse cannot feel the drum of a thousand droplets? Cannot feel moisture making lines through fur, soggy and slick?

She blinks away these thoughts and stares at a sky burdened by heavy clouds, choking the unseen blue like smoke from a forest fire. Even under Freya's scrutiny they withhold their watery showers, shuffling past with a burly wind, as if they think Burmecia is too lowly to receive their heavenly freight. Not that it matters, she thinks, because the dead can't feel the rain anyway.

Freya lowers her gaze once more and awes at the gloominess of her thoughts. She is not surprised though; her task is not an uplifting one.

She stoops low to retrieve what she had put down: a newly carved gravestone. She does not recognise the name inscribed on its grainy face, or perhaps she does? She has been through so many gravestones now, the names are no different to the raindrops that have momentarily ceased to fall upon the City Of Eternal Rain: indistinguishable.

During the war, there was no time to create gravestones. The bodies were buried hastily and granted metal plates with names and birth dates etched upon their brittle surfaces. Now, in a time of peace, they can finally bestow upon the fallen the headstones they deserve. And it is Freya's task to plant them. A perverse kind of gardening, she thinks.

Freya had not been alone, initially. Others helped, but their hearts are frail. They cannot stand the act of finality, the morbid ache that gnaws their bones. But Freya can; she thinks her soul is quite numb.

Digging hard with the shovel (the rectangular hole must be deep lest the gravestone tumble beneath its own weight), she does not hear him approach. The stodgy mud muffles his footsteps; but still, she finds it odd because her ears are attune to most things. She thinks her senses must be numb, too.

"You have been working hard," he says, and his voice contains traces of hesitation. He had not known what to say; he spurted the first, useless observation that had popped into his mind. Freya does not know whether to be angry (lovers shouldn't have to think of things to say – is silence not enough?) or grateful (he has come to see her and _that_ is enough), but in the end she just feels indifferent about the whole thing, and finds that so much worse. However, she decides to be polite, and stakes the ground with her shovel. It sinks easily into the mud then topples over like the mast of a sinking ship. She turns to him but cannot quite make the smile warm.

He's looking at the grave. He has a steaming cup of something in his hand. He notices her stare and his ears prick forward expectantly, but she says nothing, so he feebly extends the china cup and says, "I brought you ginger tea."

She can't help herself; it's out before she thinks of the consequences. "I hate ginger."

His eyes look stung, like one who looks directly into heavy rain. "Oh," he says. "Oh. I… I'm…"

"It doesn't matter," she dismisses, not because she genuinely doesn't care (she does) but because she can't bear to hear him say 'I forgot' or 'I'm sorry'. Not again. "I'll drink it anyway."

They sit on a grassy null, unperturbed by the mud. The absence of rain is unsettling; Freya feels naked without it. It is so quiet! The rain's chorus has fallen still, as if the clouds wish to listen to words exchanged. She glares up at their saggy burrows, but they bustle on obliviously.

He's fidgeting, and it irritates her, because she knows he's just looking for something to say. She spares him the task.

"How are the castle's repairs?"

He looks relieved that he doesn't have to start a conversation and again the strings of her temper are plucked. He hurriedly replies, "They fair well. The masonry is quite fine; finer perhaps than how the castle looked previously… though I cannot quite recall…" He trails off awkwardly, embarrassed, because even though Freya has said little of his amnesia, he senses the leaden lump of irritation, cool within her depths. "And the town is looking splendid. The people have worked so hard to rebuild it, and those who fled are returning in profusion by the day!"

Freya casts her gaze west and considers Burmecia sprawled below. She feels how a god might feel considering a thundercloud, for it is still grey and slick with rainfall. A gloomy sight, but she cannot apprehend the surge of affection anyway.

"I look forward to the day it is complete again," she sighs. "Though I suppose it will never truly be the same, as it was years gone."

Frately clears his throat and Freya realises he must think her comment directed at him.

"I am sorry that it will not be quite how it was," he remarks ruefully.

She curses the cobwebs in his mind, and the way he tries so hard to make things right, and the love she feels that refuses to diminish no matter how much she hates herself for it.

But outwardly, she just shrugs, then rests her head on his shoulder.

It begins to rain again.


	5. Chef's Special

**Colour from last chapter was grey! This is probably the hardest chapter to get. Quite a random couple too, but surprisingly fun to write. Enjoy!**

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**Part 5  
**_Chef's Special_

Amarant tilts his chair back to prop his feet atop the table. Thick mud splatters onto the surface from his boot, defacing the scuffed woodwork with the fruits of a day's trek. The barman grunts something disapproving, but dares not approach a man of Amarant's build forthrightly. Even when the redhead is reclined so casually, his lethality is clearly not to be challenged.

Not oblivious to the fear and scorn of the other patrons (most sheltering from the torrential downpour outside, and rightly so, for they say it is the worst storm they have seen in years) but uncaring nonetheless, Amarant toys with a coin, spinning it despondently on the tabletop and wondering whether to face the weather again. Far be it from him to be deterred by wet, but slogging through mud had become rather tiresome. And he is hungry.

He stands. The pub is crowded but no one will dare to take his table, and there's mud all over it now anyway. In a rare moment of vain reflection, he marvels at how his physique (or perhaps his preceding reputation) demands respect without an uttered word. Though it does attract as much trouble as it diverts, he reflects soberly, but at least in quiet towns like this most will veer away, and he is pleased.

Unfortunately, not all take the hint.

She swaggers through an oakwood door further along the bar with her eyes narrowed belligerently and a chicken wing protruding from her mouth. The door is thrown aside with such force that it ricochets loudly, quelling the pub banter and causing heads to turn. Always thus, he thinks; she is ridiculously theatrical.

Lani tears a chunk of chicken from the bone then throws the leg away, unconcerned of where it lands. She then storms to the bar and Amarant sighs heavily, even before she greets him with: "You! What are _you_ doing here!?"

He doesn't look up, which infuriates her, so she leans purposely against the bar's surface to catch his eye. Amarant ignores her, watches instead the path of the barman's gaze as he can't help but notice Lani's exposed clevage, her coffee skin exotic against the turquoise top she wears. For some reason, it makes him mildly angry, and he thumps the bar top with a giant hand. Everyone near jumps at the thunderous noise (except Lani) and a thin line of sweat forms on the barman's brow as he scuttles forward to serve his waiting – an apparently angry – customer.

"Y-yes?"

"Beef stew. And any ale that doesn't taste like watered down cat piss." He pauses. "Oh, and something for the woman, too."

"Bottle of Alexandria's finest," Lani sneers. The barman gives her a look and she nods. "Yeah, _that_ one. The expensive stuff."

Amarant can't help but feel ruffled, or at least his hardly heavy purse can't, but he keeps his trepidations inside and takes his cat-piss ale and her expensive wine to the table with a casual air of indifference. There, he reclaims his seat and his boots reclaim the table, and she indelicately straddles a chair and glares at him.

"Where've you been, Red? You haven't written or dropped by once. Not even a bloody moogle came to my door with a note!"

"Your door?" He chuckles darkly. "You own a house now?"

"N-no!" she stutters, then finds herself again. "No. I… I've been staying here. Until the market livens up. If _someone_ quit getting to the all the good jobs first…"

Amarant shrugs. "Can't help being good at what I do. Anyway, I think you're bein' lazy. There's plenty of jobs out there – just not many in shitty taverns and hic towns."

"I am _going_ to move on," she clucks. "I just don't know where yet."

"That never stopped you before."

"No but…"

"But…?"

She shifts on the chair and pouts, arms crossed against her ridiculous cleavage. "It's not the same without you, alright? We used to be a team years ago…"

He sighs, more in annoyance than melancholy contemplation, and frostily says, "You _know_ that didn't work out."

"I know but…"

"No 'buts'."

Their food arrives. The beef pieces in his stew look like bloated dead things in a marshy bog. It tastes no better. He calls for the tab, scrutinises the price of her wine, then pays it without fuss. He stands and goes to leave but casts a gaze beneath his fiery mop of dreads and catches her dark eyes staring with liquid emotion at the wine. He notices for the first time the dirt along her jaw and neck, and notices, too, the dried blood flaking off her axe and he thinks that maybe they're not so different after all.

"You better go ask the barman for a cork," he says, "because I didn't pay all that money for a bottle of wine you're not even gonna drink."

She blinks up at him stupidly, then stands and snatches the bottle off the table. She downs it in one, not a drop misplaced, then slams it down defiantly, her eyes narrow and dark and challenging.

He gives her nothing aside from a look that is entirely unconcerned, then strolls casually toward the door.

Lani follows, and they battle the rain together.


	6. Heart Shaped Bruises

DONE. Left these two til last. My babies, hehe. Speaking of which, keep an eye out for 'Foundations' (Brick By Brick's sequel) it'll be up next week maybe? Maybe...

(Last chap colour was brown. Man, you guys, I thought that was a hard one, haha! This one is hella easy anyways.)

Thanks again for the reviews, one final note will be much appreciated!

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**Part 6**  
_ Heart Shaped Bruises_

_Some thief_, she thinks with a wry smirk. _It's one thing to be good at sneaking, quite another to let someone sneak up on you._

Despite her advantageous viewpoint, she takes the time to contemplate his latest trick, and sighs in light of his hopelessness.

Still unaware of his hideout's infiltration, Zidane sniggers into his hand, tail swinging playfully not far from where she stands, silent as the fall of autumn leaves.

She looks down upon the castle's private vegetable patch, though 'patch' is quite a laughable description in this case, for the imagery it arouses of quaint plots does not justify the ploughed expanse beneath her. A square at least the size of the castle's Great Hall is thriving with plant life, every seasonable vegetable she can name and more, all lovingly tended to by countless professional gardeners.

And currently, it is under attack.

She and her unsuspecting partner stand on the zenith of a grassy slope beside an oak, which overlooks the scene of chaos at a reasonable distance. She squints hard to make out the fruits of his lame humour and spots fat balls hopping between green leaves and budding vegetation. It takes her a moment to figure out what they are (for a moment she thinks the pumpkins have come to life) but when she realises their nature she fights to suppress another despondent sigh.

Oglops. Dozens of them. And the poor gardeners and stray Pluto Knights are running amuck trying to catch them, some simply fleeing from the little monstrosities, and some trying to kill them. There are people wielding shovels, watering cans and carrots. People seeking refuge atop overturned wheelbarrows and people shrieking like Bahamut himself is overturning the fertile plot. It is havoc and she marvels at how these harmless bugs can overturn what she'd thought to be such an orderly environment.

She turns her attention back to Zidane, who still snickers like a child. She creeps closer, then grabs his tail and gives it a slight tug. Of course, he reacts like she's yanked it straight from the socket and yelps something unmanly. He spins round, all guilty and defensive and scared, but when he recognises his assailant the roguish grin returns.

"Ehehehe… Busted."

"Busted, indeed." She tries to sound stern, but she just can't vanquish the playful smile. His mischievousness reminds her of old times, when she wore her overalls instead of queenly smocks and campfires lit their tents in dancing hues. "And what do you think you're doing?"

He scratches the back of his head. "Ah… I'm… harvesting?"

"With oglops?"

"Yes."

Dagger shrugs, unable to neutralize his innate misbehaviour. "Well, it's certainly a novel method, I'll give you that."

Thinking he's been let off the hook, his tone becomes light as he declares: "I call it… Tribal Ploughing." He throws a casual arm around her shoulder and waves to the chaos below with the other, as if showing off a marvellous kingdom. "Nothing beats a good ploughing from the Tribal, as you very well know."

"As I…?" (It takes a moment to dawn on her; she's always been slow with his crude humour). "Zidane! Really… Anyway, who's going to sort all this out?" She gestures to the bedlam.

Zidane chuckles. "I think the Pluto Knights are handling it well enough."

They look across at the armoured men, whose squealing is better suited to children. Two are huddled in each other's arms atop a water barrel, while another tries his best to squash the pests with a spade. Dagger can't help but giggle.

"It's harvesting time anyways," Zidane amends with an uninterested yawn. "Man, I'm beat. You wanna hit the sack?"

"It's hardly past six, you lazy oaf." She turns her attention back to his trick. "Aren't you at all guilty? Look how the oglops eat the vegetables! All those lovely pumpkins…"

Zidane wrinkles his nose. "Bleh. I hate pumpkin soup. Hey, you know what we should do? We should carve them up! I used to do that when I was a kid, you know, put all weird faces on 'em and stuff."

Dagger raises an incredulous eyebrow. "I've never heard of such a thing! Look, you go and carve your pumpkins or whatever. I'm going to have to tidy up your mess. Wherever did you get all those oglops anyway?"

He grins and winks, so she knows she'll never find out, and for some reason she gets a bit angry. "Zidane, you _do_ know I'm going to have to clean up this mess, don't you?"

"What? Nah. You got people to do that for you. Rust-a-lot's lackeys –"

"I'm going to have calm the gardeners. They're going to be furious – no, no I wont tell them it was you, but I'm going to have to think of some excuse – where all those oglops came from for one! – and then I'm going to have to arrange the importation of more vegetables because clearly we're going to be short a batch, which means I'm going to be receiving more paperwork than I need – and you know how much paperwork I get as it is –"

Zidane's face screws up with concern. "Sorry…"

She ends her rant and turns away, waves him off with a crisp, "Oh, forget it."

But he doesn't forget, and he is sorry, and he thinks hard of a way to make it up to her.

-

The first thing Dagger notices when she enters their chamber much later that night, isn't the snoring thief sprawled atop their bedcovers, or his unclean dagger discarded carelessly upon the carpet, but the large pumpkin with a heart carved out of its side. It is lit from within by a single candle, so upon the wall the brilliant silhouette is highlighted in shades of gold. It's terribly cheesy, but she's touched anyway, and plants a lingering kiss on his cheek before tucking him in and blowing out the candle.

Lying beneath the covers, she decides he's definitely worth the trouble, but she isn't cleaning the slimy mound of pumpkin innards off the carpet. She's had enough of cleaning up his mess. At least for today.


End file.
